ELEVEN
On the ground
Faldaiza Port
WHEN SHE WAS CERTAIN her back-track was clean, she set her course for the port proper, Dancer, a clean-up, and a well-earned nap. She thought of the big tub in her abandoned hotel room and sighed. It would’ve been nice to sit and soak, maybe another bottle of wine to hand and some interesting company to share it all with.
As it was, she’d had interesting company right enough, and too much of the wrong kind of excitement.
“Might as well been working,” she muttered to herself, checking her back-track again. Far as she could scan it—far as her ‘skins could scan it, too—she was alone in the world at present. Which suited. Port was quiet anyhow, it being about five local hours ahead of busy-time for the daily paper-pushers and cits. Not being stared at by the cits— “Look, kids, there’s one of those space pilots!” —suited, too.
She wished now that she’d had a chance to get out of Pilot Jela the name of whoever he’d annoyed. Anybody who could field the number of players she’d seen tonight likely had the means to operate elsewhere than Faldaiza. She could do without meeting them or theirs again on her next set-down—or ever.
Once again, she checked her back. Still clean. Heartened, she continued on her way, keeping to shadows when she could but not being fanatical about it. There wasn’t any sense calling attention to herself by being too stealthy. Extra caution, that would pass, pilots being who and what they were. Even extra-jumpy caution would pass, there being some pilots who just naturally did better on-ship than on-ground.
Not that she particularly argued with that better-on-ship stuff. Once you got the hang of the sound and vibrations, there wasn’t anyplace you could be on a ship and not have a good idea of what was going.
Not like here, as a quick sample, where part of the listening was wasted on identifying high squeaky sounds she’d never heard before—could be birds, could be equipment—to identifying the deep, low, shaking rumbles—might be light ground tremors, might be a storm coming in, might be equipment—hell, might be some club-band practicing with their enviroboards! If she jacked the ‘skins a bit she might get some directionals and figure the noises out, but then she’d be standin’ stock-still to listen, which would gain her attention she didn’t want or need.
Could be she was just gettin’ that tired, which ought to warn her not to run quite so close to the edge, a lesson she thought she’d learned a dozen or two times over.
She’d come into the shipyards some distance from her exit point, on the day-side, now closed up tight for the local night—and was on the approach to Dancer’s location, passing a strip of low cermacrete buildings—cargo brokerage office, repair-and-parts shop, automated currency exchange, and a grab-a-bite looking a degree scruffier than most.
Cantra sighed. Inside a local hour, all going well, she’d be back on her ship. Safe, as the saying went.
She strolled on past the grab-a-bite. Away near the center of the yard, she could just make out the lines of her ship. Despite herself, she smiled, and stretched her legs a little more, feeling the cermacrete under her boots.
Her ‘skins gave a yell, audible to her ears only, but she was already turning, hideaway sliding into her palm—and found herself facing a too-familiar stocky woman with determined gray eyes, wearing a pair of mechanic’s coveralls neither new nor clean, with conveniently long sleeves, clipped tight at the wrists, and “J.D. Wigams” stenciled on the breast. A work hood had been shoved up and back, hanging careless-seeming over one shoulder.
“If the pilot would follow this—” There was a marked break-off and a sharp intake of breath. “If the pilot would follow,” she repeated, firmer this time.
Cantra sighed, hideaway still enclosed in her fist. “No sense to it. I’m for my ship and a lift out. You’re on your own, except if you’re wanting a last piece of advice, which is—don’t startle people who’ve got cause to carry protection.”
“I am grateful for the advice,” Dulsey said stolidly. “As I understand the transaction, advice balances advice. So—my advice to you: Take care not to walk into a trap, believing harm has lagged behind you.”
Cantra stared at her. “You reading me good numbers, Dulsey? If not, I’ll make sure you never have to face the new master.”
“The pilot is generous. I have seen evidence. That same evidence is available to you. Follow me.” She turned and walked back toward the row of sullen shops, not looking back.
Cantra sucked air deep into her lungs and exhaled, hard.
Then she followed Dulsey.
DOWN ALONG THE SHOPS, and back a small alleyway, no more than seventy or eighty paces from where she’d been stopped, there was a small shop— “Wigams Synchro Repair and Service” —and she’d been all but dragged inside by Dulsey, past the sign showing the place wouldn’t be open for business for another couple hours.
There wasn’t any sign of forced entry, and Dulsey had carefully turned the mechanical lock behind them before heading for the stairs beside the work bay. Cantra sighed gently. It looked like she wasn’t the only one around with proper tools and improper training.
She hadn’t been particularly surprised to find it was Pilot Jela and his vegetative friend Dulsey had led her to, and not particularly surprised to find him sitting comfortably in a deep leather chair behind a shiny real wood desk with a wonderful view of the window on the top level office of Synchro Repair. The window in turn had a wonderful view overlooking the port.
Jela hadn’t bothered with a greeting, just pointed at the spy-glass sitting on the sythnwood work table beside the big desk.
Cantra eased onto a stool and picked up the ‘glass, finding it already set to study a circle ‘round Dancer’s position. Not hard to find a ship, after all; a quick search on her name run against the roster of ships down during the last day local would net the info fastest.
She sat for a heartbeat, just staring down into the black surface, then put her hands on the wake-ups.
The surface cleared, and she was looking at the yard, Dancer so close on her right hand she could read the name and the numbers on the pitted side. The view panned back, showing a range of ships, and energy overlays on two of them.
“Get on the portmaster’s bad side, holding weapons live on the yard,” she commented.
Jela didn’t answer, except to say, “To the right about thirty degrees, if you might?”
Which she obediently did, and the view changed, displaying a piece of construction equipment lazily moving behind a distant fence in its storage yard, like it was looking for a place to park.
“Up the magnification a notch.”
She shrugged . . .
Right. She had him figured now for some kind of security pro, so he’d notice what she might miss. And she would have, too. Not construction equipment after all, the armored crawler was a dark wolf among the yard’s more regulation equipment, staying a prudent distance back from the fence. The energy overlay on that flickered as it moved, as if it were shielded.
“Check the ships again.”
She drew a ragged breath, did so, and the screen showed those ships and the energy overlays still on high, then faded to black as she thumbed the power.
Eyes closed, she sighed, then spun the stool and glared at Jela.
“So?” she asked.
He shrugged his big shoulders, showing her empty palms.
“Didn’t seem neighborly to let you walk into that,” he said, projecting a certain style of soothing calm that she found particularly annoying.
She took another deep breath.
“One,” she said. “Like I said before—you don’t need to go to all that trouble for me. Two. I’d appreciate an explanation of what the pair of you think you’re doing, snooping my ship.”
“Looking for a lift out,” he said.
Cantra snorted. “I don’t take passengers.”
“Understood,” he said, still projecting calm, which was going to get his nose broke for him sometime real soon. “Nobody expects you to take passengers. Hate ‘em myself. But nobody here’s a passenger. I’m willing to sit second. If you don’t mind my saying it, Pilot, you were looking to be on the wild side of edgy when we met for dinner. Could be a run with some downtime built into it is just what you—and your ship—need.”
“I’m the judge of what me and my ship need,” Cantra snarled. “And what neither needs is to be taking up a man whose friends are shyer than his enemies and a Batcher on the run from her owner.”
“This humble person,” Dulsey said, “is fully capable in cargo handling, communications, and outside repair. Also, this person has received some small training in the preparation of foods, which the pilot may find of use during the upcoming journey.”
Cantra looked at her.
“Repair, comm, and cargo?”
“Yes, Pilot.”
“What was you doing working in a restaurant?”
Dulsey looked aside. “The manufacture of our Pod was commissioned by Enclosed Habitats, which specialized in constructing and maintaining research stations. When the cost of maintaining the stations exceeded the contracted sums, the company failed. All assets were sold at auction, including the worker pods. The master purchased those of our Pod who remained for The Alcoves.”
“How many of your Pod’re left now?” Cantra asked, though she didn’t really have to.
“One.” Dulsey whispered.
Right.
“That’s too bad,” Cantra said. “Doesn’t change that you’re a runaway Batcher—or will be, pretty soon—which puts you on a course to there being none of your pod left by—call it mid-day tomorrow, local.”
“There is benefit to the pilot in accepting the assistance of Pilot Jela and this—and myself.” There was a note of panic in the Batcher’s voice, despite the bravura of ‘myself’, and the gray eyes were wide.
Cantra cocked an eyebrow. “I’d argue opposite, myself, but there don’t seem to be a need just now.” She glanced over to Jela.
“I need a roster, a comp, and a talkie.”
He pointed beyond her, at a stand next to the work table. “Lift the top of that. It’s all right there.”
THE NAME OF THE SHIP was Pretty Parcil. Cantra spent a few moments jinking with the feeds, not wanting to be interrupted in her conversation, nor particularly needing the garage day-shift to take delivery of trouble that wasn’t theirs. Jela watched her, silent in his borrowed chair. He was still projecting calm, but he’d either eased up some or she was getting used to it.
Satisfied at last with her arrangements, she opened a line to the piloting station on Pretty Parcil.
There was a click and a voice, sounding sterner and older than he had earlier in the day.
“Parcil. Pilot on deck.”
“Is that Pilot Danby?”
A pause about wide enough to hold a blink, followed by a specifically non-committal ack on the ID, then, “Pilot. What happened?” No more than that. Likely he wasn’t alone in the tower. That was all right.
“Turned out to be a mistake,” she told him. “I’m at liberty and mean to stay that way.”
“Mistake?” He was a bright boy, and not too young to understand that there were mistakes—and mistakes.
“I give you my word of honor,” for what it’s worth, she added, silently, “that there’s no bounty out on me.”
She heard his sigh—or might be she imagined it. “Good. What can I do for you, Pilot?”
“I’m wondering if you can confirm for me,” she said. “I’ve got two ships on scan showing live weapons. Don’t want to think my scanner’s gone bad, but . . .”
“I’ll check,” Danby said, and over the line there came the sound of various accesses being made, then a bit of silence . . .
“Nothing wrong with your scanner,” he said eventually. “You protest to the portmaster?”
“Not yet,” she said, and Jela leaned forward on his stool, black eyes showing interest.
“I’m wondering,” she said to Danby, “if a protest from a Parcil Family ship might get a little extra snap into the belay order. I’m small trade, myself. Just me and my co-pilot, like I told you . . .”
“Got it,” he said. “I can file that protest, Pilot. Stay on line?”
“Will do.”
She heard him open a second line, and request the portmaster’s own ear for “First Pilot, Parcil Trade Clan Ship Pretty Parcil.” There was silence, then, which she’d expected, and—much sooner than she’d hoped—his voice again.
“Portmaster, we’ve just completed a security scan and have identified two vessels on-yard with weapons live.” A pause, then a calm recitation of the coords of both ships, and, “Yes ma’am, I am filing formal protest of these violations. I request that you issue a cease-and-desist to those vessels immediately, to be enforced as necessary.”
Another short silence, and a respectful, “Thank you, ma’am. We will monitor. Parcil out.”
Cantra smiled. Jela came of the chair and moved to the work table, doubtless to have a looksee via the spy-glass.
“Protest filed, Pilot.” Danby was back with her. “The portmaster promises a shut-down inside the local hour.”
“Much obliged,” she said, and meant it. “I’ll get back to my prelims, then, and hope I won’t have to ask you to verify my long-scans.”
“We’ve been watching long,” he said. “Pilot’s Undernet has reports of pirate activity in-sector. Faldaiza shows clear to out orbit. So far.”
“Obliged again,” she said. “If I catch anything suspicious on the long, I’ll pass it on.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “Thanks for the heads-up, Pilot. Good lift, fair journey.”
“Fair journey, Pilot,” she answered, just like she was as legit as he was, and closed the line before folding the desktop down.
Jela had a hip hitched on the edge of the work table, black eyes intent on the image in the spy-glass.
“One’s off-line,” he said without looking up. “The portmaster doesn’t like the Clans upset.”
“Makes sense to keep the money happy,” Cantra returned, considering him. “What about that armor?”
“Nothing lit,” he said, head still bent. “Might not be anything to do with us at all.”
“On the other hand, it might be,” she finished what he didn’t say and sighed. “Man, whose ugly side did you get on?”
“Second one’s down,” he said, and looked up, his face about as expressive as she’d expected.
“Am I getting an answer to that, Pilot? Seems to me I’m owed.”
He frowned. “By my calculations, we’re even.”
“Not if you leave me open to more of the same, elsewhere.” She felt her temper building and took a deliberately deep breath, trying to notch it back. Her temper wasn’t her best feature, being enough to sometimes scare her. She didn’t figure it would scare the man across from her, though it might lose her bargaining points.
“The reason I’m in it at all is because we had dinner together. Honest mistake—on both our parts. I had no right to the particulars of your business up to the point my hands are ‘wired together and I’m being hauled out of a public place on a bogus bounty. At that point, you owed me info—and I ain’t been paid yet.”
He looked thoughtful. “You won’t like the answer.”
She blinked. “So I won’t like the answer,” she said. “Plenty of answers out there I don’t like.”
He sighed, lightly. “All right, then. The answer is, I don’t know who’s involved, if they’re local or more—connected.”
“You’re right,” Cantra said, after a moment. “I don’t like it. Do better, why not?”
He spread his hands. “Wish I could.”
Her temper flared. “Dammit, we got a double-digit body count out of this night’s work, including Dulsey’s Batch, and you don’t know who thinks you done ‘em wrong?”
“That’s right,” he said, imperturbable.
“It is possible that those who ultimately seek the pilot are off-world,” Dulsey said surprisingly, from her seat on a closed toolbox. “The ones who came to The Alcoves were local odd jobbers.”
Cantra spun on a heel to look at her, sitting with her hands gripping her knees and her pale face seeming to glow in the dimness.
“How you figure off-world?”
Dulsey moved her head a little from side to side. “Odd jobs are done for pay. Had the pilots paid for protection against harm, then the local chapter would have split—half to fulfill the contract to . . . discommode . . . the pilots; half to ensure that the pilots were not in any way impeded.”
“They don’t act on their own is what you’re saying?”
“Pilot, that is correct.”
Cantra looked over at Jela.
“Light any dials for you?”
“Sorry.”
She sighed, then shrugged, giving it up as a hopeless case. “I’ll watch my back. Business as usual.” She nodded to Jela. “Be seeing you, Pilot. Safe lift.”
She was halfway to the door before she heard him say, “About that armor, Pilot Cantra . . .”
Red at the edge of her vision. She stopped, keeping her back toward the two of them, closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe in the pattern she’d been taught.
“Pilot?” Jela again. She ignored him, breathing—just that—until the urge to mayhem had receded to a safer, pink, distance.
She turned and met his space-black gaze straight on.
“It’s been what I count as a long day, Pilot Jela, and my good nature’s starting to wear a bit thin. If you got info bearing on the safety of my ship and her pilot, share it out short and sweet.”
“The info’s nothing special,” he said, and she could hear a certain care in his voice, though he’d given over the stringent projecting of calm. “Just a reminder that ground-based armor can bring weapons on-line faster than space-based.”
“By which you’re meaning to tell me that armor there—” she nodded at the spy-glass sitting quiet and dark on the workbench “—doesn’t have to reveal its feelings until I’m rising without challenge.”
“That’s right.”
“I thank you for the reminder,” she said, feeling the quiver starting in the roots of her bones, which meant the last of the adrenaline had run its course. Too long a day, by all the counts that mattered. She eyed the pilot before her, with his tell-nothing face, his big shoulders and solid build.
“Military?” she asked, wondering how she hadn’t quite managed to get him pinned down on that either.
“Not quite,” he gave back, which was answer enough in its way.
“What do you want?”
“What I said—transport out, for me, the tree, and Dulsey. I’m good for co-pilot and, yes, I do know the avoids for that class of armor.”
“Might be manned.”
He hitched a shoulder—qualified denial. “Not much room in those for personnel. Not to say there couldn’t be a couple of smalls running crew. In which case the assault’s randomized, making avoids more difficult, and less accurate, which assists avoidance.”
“That a fact?” This asked against a rising shake. She tried to make the follow-on sound stronger. “That stuff can be evaded?”
“Experience shows it can.”
Cantra closed her eyes. The shaking was more pronounced, now. She was headed for a crash and no mistake. Granted, she had more than enough Tempo in stores to keep her up and fully able for some number of ship’s days. Having flown that course more than once, she knew that all the drug did was put the time of the crash out, interest compounded hourly.
And, truth told, she didn’t have room for downtime on this leg—not now and not later. She had cargo, she had a deadline—and there was no way she could justify taking anyone lawful aboard her ship—nor trust anyone not.
She flicked a look at Dulsey, sitting frozen on her toolbox, and another at Jela, standing calm and quiet, letting her think it through. What his answer might be if the product of her thought didn’t match his had-to’s, she couldn’t guess. And, after all, it was her ship.
She jerked her head toward the door.
“Right. Experience. Let’s go.”
THERE WASN’T ANY WAY to tell how the ships and the armor gained their info, so there wasn’t any use going roundabout to the ramp of Pilot Cantra’s ship. Thus the pilot ruled. As it happened, Jela didn’t disagree with her reasons or her decision. He was beginning to develop some serious respect for Pilot Cantra, even though the day was beginning to visibly wear on her.
They marched in order—pilot first, himself and the tree next, Dulsey in her stolen coveralls and not-stolen gun covering the rear. It was interesting to note that they encountered no armed lurkers or outliers. Not so much as a panhandler impeded their progress. Jela walked on, senses hyper-alert, and revised his opinion regarding the likely involvement of the armor. It wasn’t especially good strategy to depend on the equipment to the exclusion of soldiers on the ground. On the other hand, he hadn’t seen much good strategy in this op—present company excluded.
The air had cooled rapidly with the setting of the local star, however, so brisk was their march that it was unnecessary for his ‘skins to raise the temp. Above his head, the tree’s leaves were still despite the breeze of their passage, allowing him to use his ears to listen for possible enemy movement.
They came to the ramp of the pilot’s ship in good order. She mounted first, which was her right as captain; long, light stride waking not a whisper from the metal deck. He followed, the tree cradled in his arms, and Dulsey came at his back, metal ringing under her deliberate steps.
The hatch began to slide back as Pilot Cantra reached the top of the ramp. She never paused, crossing the landing in two of her strides and ducking through the gap into the lock beyond.
By the time Jela, bearing the extra inconvenience of the tree, reached the landing the hatch was wide open, the lock beyond spilling pale blue light onto the decking. The plate over the door read Spiral Dance. No home port.
He paused, waiting for Dulsey.
She reached his side, throwing him a wide glance out of gray eyes. “Pilot?”
Arms occupied with the tub holding the tree, he used his chin to point.
“The minute you cross into that ship, a bounty goes on you,” he said.
“Yes, Pilot. This—I am aware of that,” she answered and it might have been impatience he heard. He hoped so.
“You didn’t discuss with Pilot Cantra where you might like to be set down,” he continued. “There aren’t many worlds where those Batch-marks will go unnoticed.”
“I am also aware of that, Pilot. I thank you for your concern, but my immediate need is to depart Faldaiza. Deeper plans—deeper plans await event.”
Two “I-s” and a “my” in the same couple sentences, and nary a hesitation before any of them. She might, he thought, make it. Provided she could find some way to neutralize the Batch tats. There might even be a way to do it, short of amputating the arms and regrowing. He’d never heard of any undetectable method besides the amputations—acid baths only removed the first two or three layers of skin, and left behind telltale burns; attempts to camouflage the tats with others, done by needle, were doomed to failure.
“We should not,” Dulsey said, “keep Pilot Cantra waiting.”
“We should not,” he agreed, and jerked his chin again at the open hatch. “After you.”
SHE HIT THE PILOT’S CHAIR, hands already on the board, opening long eyes and short, slapping up wide ears. Pilot voices began to murmur—groundside chatter, as it sounded. Nobody sounding frantic, no tightness in the banter. Good.
Her hands were starting to shake, and a high whine had started in her ears, damn it all to the Deeps. She thought about the stick of Tempo in the utility drawer. Left it there.
A racket from behind announced the imminent arrival of her crew, speaking of arrant stupidity. She pushed on a corner of the board; a hatch slid silently open, revealing a minute control panel; snapped three toggles from left to right, pressed the small orange stud. The hatch slid shut, merging invisibly with the metal surface.
Cantra spun her chair around to face the incoming.
Dulsey came first, slipping her weapon away into a pocket of the coverall. Pilot Jela came next, massive arms wrapped around a biggish pot, apparently not at all bothered by the leaves tickling his ear or the twigs sticking into his head. He took in the piloting room with one comprehensive black glance, walked over to the point where the board met the wall on the far side of the co-pilot’s station, bent and set the pot gently on the decking. He slapped open a leg pouch, pulled out a roll of cargo twine and pitched it to Dulsey, who caught it one-handed, and stood holding it, head cocked to one side.
“Secure that,” Jela said. The words fell like an order on Cantra’s ringing ears.
Apparently it sounded that way to Dulsey, too. She dropped her eyes, mouth tightening. “Pilot,” she murmured and walked over to do what she’d been told.
Jela put himself into the co-pilot’s chair without any further discussion, his big hands deft on the controls. Seat adjusted to his satisfaction, he pointed his eyes at the board, giving it the same all-encompassing look he’d given the pilot’s tower.
“We have a scheduled lift?” he asked. “Pilot?”
“We do,” she answered, spinning back to face her screens. “We’ll be departing some earlier.”
He was opening co-pilot’s eyes, his attention on the readouts; touched a switch and brought the chatter up a mite.
“If we re-file, we give warning of our intention to anyone interested,” he said, just offering the info.
“That’s so,” she agreed. “Which is why we’re not refiling.” She eyed the readouts—nothing glowing that shouldn’t be; and the armor just where and how they’d last seen it. The chatter was staying peaceful, and long eyes brought her nothing but the serene turn of stars. She reached to her own instruments and started the wake-up sequence.
“What we’re going to do as soon as Dulsey has that damn’ vegetable secured and gets herself strapped down, is grab us out and lift.”
“Tree,” Jela said, so quiet she could barely hear him over the chatter and the ringing. He sent her a glance, lean face absolutely expressionless. “If we wait a bit, we might lull whoever could be watching into thinking we’ll keep to the filed lift.”
If we wait a bit, Cantra thought, feeling the shake in her muscles, the pilot won’t be fit to fly.
She fixed him with a glare. “You sign up as co-pilot on my ship?”
Black eyes blinked. Once. “Pilot, I did.”
“That’s what I thought, too. We go now. Pilot’s choice.”
Another blink, and a return to the studious consideration of his area.
“Pilot,” he said, and there might or might not’ve been an edge to his voice. Not that she gave a demi-qwint either way.
“Dulsey,” she snapped. “Can you take acceleration?”
“Yes, Pilot,” came the cool response. “More than you can.”
Now there was an assumption. Cantra grinned, feeling it more teeth than humor. Navigation brain was awake. She set it to scanning for safe out-routes, and shot a fast look down-board. Dulsey was finishing up with the cord and the vegetable. Tree. Whatever.
“Get yourself strapped into the fold-out. You got ten from my mark.” She took a breath. “Mark.”
Suggested routes were coming in from navigation; she belatedly added the co-pilot to the report list, copied the first batch manually and did a quick scroll. Beside her, Jela was heard to make a sound amounting to tsk. She shot him a look while her fingers initiated engine wake-up.
“Prime thinkum,” was all he said, his big hands steady on the controls. “How do you want to run it, Pilot?”
She glanced at the nav screen, scrolled through the new offerings, moved a finger and highlighted a particular course. It hung there, gleaming yellow, awaiting the co-pilot’s consideration.
“We could do that,” he said, and the screen showed a second highlight, blue, two choices further down. “This one gives us more maneuvering room, in case anybody wants to throw flowers at us.”
She frowned at the suggested route, found it not inelegant. A little sloppy if the armor kept to itself, but nothing to endanger. The portmaster was going to be irritated, but that was the portmaster’s lookout.
“We’ll take it,” she said, and pressed the locking key. “If we wake up the armor, first board goes to you, since you got the experience and I don’t, at which point I’ll grab second.” Her hands moved, setting it up, except for the final confirm, which was one key within easy reach. “If nobody cares we’re leaving, saving the portmaster, I’ll stay with her. Scans?”
“Scans clean,” he replied.
“Dulsey, you in?”
“Yes, Pilot.”
“Ten,” said Cantra and gave Dancer the office.
* * *
SHE FLEW LIKE A bomber pilot, did Cantra, and with as much regard for her passengers. The acceleration didn’t bother him, of course, and it seemed to not bother her at about the same level, which was—almost as interesting as a nav brain that based it simulations on lifts pre-filed and stored in the central port system. He did spare a quick glance at Dulsey, strapped down in the jump seat. She looked to be asleep.
They were up for full seconds before Tower started howling. Neither the order nor the language in which it was couched interested Pilot Cantra, by his reading of the side of her face.
More seconds. Tower continued to issue orders, and other voices came on-line quickly—pilots on the yard, they were, some siding with Tower, others urging Spiral Dance to more speed, still others laying wagers on the various angles of the thing—elapsed time to orbit, probable fines, and the likelihood of collecting them, number of years before Spiral Dance dared raise Faldaiza again . . .
He rode his scans, seeing nothing hot behind them, on the fast-dwindling port, and was beginning to consider that the armor had never been in it at all, that local talent wasn’t going to trouble themselves to pursue off-world, in fact, might be applauding their departure—when three bright spots blossomed on the screen. Not energy weapons—missiles!
“Trouble in the air!” Jela spat, and reached hands toward a board not yet his.
In short order, just ahead of them, a glare of light, and then the port-ward scans lighting up at the same instant as the ship’s collision alarm went off. He took it in, didn’t swear.
“Con coming your way.” Cantra’s voice was firm.
Another burst, and the pilot slapped the transfer button, swapping her board for his. His hands moved, feeding in avoids, hoping the pattern he had in his head was going to be good enough.
“Three,” Pilot Cantra said meditatively. “And the man don’t know who loves him.”
Being engaged, he let the debate go, kicked the engine up another notch, and felt the ship surge while screens one, three, and five showed explosions.
Though they were still in atmosphere he slapped up the meteor shields, then played the controls a moment to check reaction time . . . let the ship spin about the long axis, the modest airfoils working just fine at this velocity.
Tower came over the open comm, ordering the armor to cease and desist, which would do as much good as ordering any other robot unit to do the same.
“Ships coming on line behind us,” Cantra said quietly. “Main screens going up as soon as we’re clear.”
Ships coming on line—that could be bad, or good, and in either case not on his worry plate until any of them actually fired. He slid the throttle up another notch, felt the instant response in his gut as the acceleration kicked in, and then quickly backed off power as the collision alarm went off again.
“Tiny!” was what Cantra said, and she was describing the munition struggling to change course, to catch them . . .
Jela slammed the control jets, bouncing the ship and occupants around ruthlessly as the missile seemed to skitter along some unseen barrier. One final burst of acceleration now and the projectile slid helplessly behind them.
Another cluster of bursts, below them now, and—
“Shields up! Got us a ship burst—”
He frowned at his screens, reached to the reset—
“One armor gone,” Cantra said. “Tower can’t decide whether to be happy or not. ID . . .” An audible in-drawn breath. “Pretty Parcil.”
“Not bad,” Jela said. “For a civilian.”
She didn’t say anything, loudly. He notched the engine back, reached to access for the next item in the navigation queue—
“Nothing close, now,” he said. “I think we’ll do.”
Suddenly a blast of noise, internal, as Cantra brought the audio to the speakers.
Jela sighed. So much for a quiet departure. Ships calling for weapons, pilots demanding information, the local air defense group issuing contradictory orders . . . and all thankfully behind them.
Cantra nodded at him, with a quick hand sign that was thanks, in pilot hand-talk.
“I’ll rig that up for auto-run,” she said, and the lights flickered under his hands—swap back. He sighed to himself, fiddled with the comm, checked the screens and said nothing. Her ship, her rules, her call.
Pilot Cantra fed the silence, fingers moving with deliberate purpose, locking in the auto-run. At last, she sat back, unsnapped the shock straps, and leaned her head against the chair.
“Dulsey!” she called.
“Pilot?” Languid. Sounded like she’d been asleep, for true. Jela grinned. Nerves spun out of steel thread. She’d do, all right. Maybe.
“You ride a board, Dulsey?”
“No, Pilot. I regret. The Batch-grown are not allowed to hold professional license.”
Cantra sighed. “Replay what I asked you, Dulsey. I don’t care if you got a license, scan?”
Silence. Jela shot a glance over his shoulder. The Batcher woman was sitting on the edge of the jump-seat, straps pushed aside. She bit her lip.
“Pilot, I can ride a board,” she said slowly. “But I am the verymost novice.”
“Just so happens you’ll have Pilot Jela on first, and he’s something better than that, as we’ve seen demonstrated. Do what he tells you and you’ll be ace.”
She turned her head and glared at Jela, who considered the lines etched in by her mouth and the discernible trembling of her arms and her fingers, and forbore to bait her.
“And you’ll ring me, if something comes up except a clear route and easy flying, is that right, Pilot Jela?”
“I’ll do just that, Pilot,” he agreed, and touched the green button at the top of his board with a light forefinger. “That’ll be this?”
“That’s it.” She reached to her instruments, assigned control back to him, and came to her feet, swaying slightly. “If you have to vary for any reason, it better be good, and you’ll be checking with me. Right, Pilot?”
“Right,” he agreed, amiable as he knew how.
“I’m going to my quarters,” she said. “Chair’s yours, Dulsey.”
She took two deliberately steady steps toward the hatch, stopped, and turned to stare at the tree.
Jela watched her, not saying anything. She stood like a woman caught in a freeze-beam. He snapped his webbing back, noisier than it needed to be.
Her glance flicked to his face, green eyes wide. “What is that?”
He felt the hairs shiver on the back of his neck and produced a smile.
“A tree, Pilot,” he said, easy as he dared. “Just a tree.”
Had she been in strength, she’d’ve asked him more, he could see that. In her present state, though, it was sleep she needed, and she knew it. Questions later, he could see her decide, and she jerked her chin down, once, letting it go.
“Orders. You ring me,” she said again. “If anything shows odd.”
“Aye, Pilot,” he returned, and the hatch snapped shut behind her.